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“So, will you go with me?”
I looked across the table in the open-air area of Effendi’s Restaurant on the Kyrenia Harbor quay, and I could see the need in Tahir. I had known he would ask me that question. That was why I was here, in the Turkish zone, on my last night in Cyprus.
Make him happy, the chief of station had said. He hadn’t said how to make Tahir happy, and it was something that had to remain unspoken, but both he and I knew why I had been here in Cyprus and why I had been assigned to run Tahir—and how I was to make him happy. Tahir was well placed in the Turkish Cypriot prime minister’s office, and the station knew exactly what Tahir’s weakness was—what could be used to win him over, to suborn him to keep providing the information we needed to know about what the Turkish Cypriots were up to.
Thus far I had kept Tahir interested and productive by the big tease. A bit of lip work and furtive hand jobs and, when his interest seemed to be lagging, a surreptitious blow job, with the excuse that we had to be extremely careful in our contacts and a promise of paradise “someday soon.” And even though my tour was now up, Tahir was still producing ever-more-interesting material, and thus this was a delicate time in the asset’s life.
“Make him happy,” was the last thing the COS had said to me before I had crossed the border from the Greek side of the divided island for the last time. “Make him look forward to your replacement,” the COS had said.
I didn’t answer Tahir’s question immediately. I was thinking about the other man at the table, his warm, hard-muscled thigh pressed maddeningly against mine.
Tahir had left word by the usual means that I was to meet him at 11:00 PM at Effendi’s Restaurant. I’d never met him here before—never before in such a public place. But it was my last night, so it didn’t matter to me if it didn’t matter to him. And I couldn’t have hoped for a better place to spend my final evening.
We were dining on the quay of the small, picturesque Kyrenia harbor, the ancient horseshoe-shaped fishing village with the Byzantine castle at its eastern end, wrapping around the small inner harbor to the Dome Hotel and the breakwater holding back the waves of the Mediterranean to the west. Lining the stone quay in the curve between the castle and the hotel were multistoried stone buildings from the same era as the castle. At one time, when Kyrenia was one of the main trade ports of the ancient island, these were all storage houses, set into the sharp incline up from the seaside. The lower stories of these buildings, facing the sea, were the storerooms and trade houses of the merchants; the upper stories, facing out onto the street ringing the harbor, were the residences of the merchant princes. The buildings abutted each other and functioned in ancient times as a city wall protecting the harbor. And to the south, looming over the coastal town and splitting the island from east to west, was the ragged-peaked Kyrenia mountain range.
Now Kyrenia was a major tourist center of the island—or as major as a blockaded island territory no country but Turkey recognized and that was in perpetual belligerence with Greek Cyprus occupying the southern half of the island could be. The harbor had been made into largely a pleasure yacht basin, and the lower stories of the ancient buildings were restaurants with tables stretching from the entries into their dimly lit interiors, used only during the colder winter months, down to the edge of the quay and the start of the masted sailboats. At night, with the fairy lights strung in the rigging of the boats in the basin, on the ramparts of the castle, and around the periphery of the restaurants, and the people strolling among the revelers of the restaurants, Kyrenia was a treasured last memory of a very pleasant foreign assignment.
The magic of the night started at 10:00 in Kyrenia, the dinner hour of the Mediterranean culture, and I had arrived at the restaurant at the height of the evening.
Tahir had been waiting for me, the look of longing on his face, hopeful in the opportunity to bed me at last—the possibility that I had held over his head for months while he was feeding his government’s secrets to me.
Tahir was very nice to look at—slim but well muscled, hirsute in a way that I liked. Black curly hair. A handsome, swarthy face, with a very nice smile.
Everything should have been just fine. But I liked my men appreciably older than me, experienced, controlling, and slightly cruel. A touch of danger went with why I was in this business at all. Tahir was younger than I was, and he gave me the impression that I would have to be the aggressor. As badly as he obviously wanted me, I felt like he would want me to dominate—but not much. Tahir wanted romance. And that wasn’t what aroused me. Still, it was probably what made Tahir so easy to run as an in-place asset. And he had earned his reward.
I knew I had to try to please him—not only so he could be passed on, but also because he had done well by me. I owed him. If I left him unsatisfied, Çankaya Escort I wasn’t being fair to the agent who replaced me. Tahir would know we were leading him on, soaking him for as much useful information as we could before cutting him off—or if he had been valuable enough to us, before we extracted him and gave him a new life somewhere far less exotic and friendly than Turkish Cyprus.
As I walked up to the table, I was smiling suggestively at Tahir, signaling that tonight was the night. And all of that time I was telling myself that somehow I had to become aroused enough to satisfy him.
But then my smile froze and I became genuinely aroused as a figure passed between Tahir and me. It was the restaurant host, asking me if I wanted a table, hearing Tahir call out that I was with him, and then giving me a broad, knowing smile.
A smile that melted me.
He was Tahir twenty years from now. Dark, much more substantial than Tahir. The same handsome face and melting smile. But older, more in control. The same dark hair, but streaked with gray and longer than Tahir’s, banded into a ponytail. Not fat but solid, heavily muscled. Substantial. This stood out in stark contrast with Tahir’s youth, puppy-dog diffidence, and hesitancy. He was the older, more world-wise, form of Tahir, giving me a knowing look as he escorted me to the table. He was guiding me with a beefy palm to the small of my back. And with that he was branding me as his—if he wanted me. Somehow he knew the decision was his; that I would have no choice.
“This is my Uncle Fazil, Jack,” Tahir said—almost unnecessarily, as we reached the table. “Can you sit with us, uncle?” Tahir asked.
Yes, yes, I was screaming in my brain.
“Perhaps a bit later, when the customers are settled,” Fazil answered. A beautiful, smooth baritone voice, with a charming Turkish-British accent.
I sat across from Tahir, and we talked about not much of anything, he fidgeting and nervously waiting for me to become mellow on the wine and atmosphere and delicious food, and me waiting for his uncle to return.
Tahir was giving me that puppy-dog look, afraid to ask what he wanted to ask. I relieved his anxiety by reaching over and playing my fingers down his forearm, through his dark matting of hair. He shuddered in recognition of what that meant. He took the fingers of the hand I wasn’t lifting the wine glass with in his hand and gently stroked my fingers. I leaned across the table and let him kiss me lightly on the lips.
As we were coming out of the kiss, Uncle Fazil was there, beside our table, and he sat down next to me and turned toward me and smiled. And I melted to him.
I had to think of something to say to him. I wanted to make whatever connection I could. It was lame, but it was a start.
“So, you work at this restaurant, do you, Fazil?”
Fazil just smiled an indulgent, knowing smile at me.
“Uncle Fazil owns the restaurant,” Tahir said, his voice full of pride. “Uncle Fazil lives in Istanbul and just comes home occasionally. Uncle Fazil is an importer. See that big yacht right out there? That’s Uncle Fazil’s too.”
Bells were going off in my brain, flipping through the cables I had to review daily in the vaulted station area of the embassy. Fazil. Fazil Fikret, the arms smuggler. I tried not to change expression. The illusive Fazil Fikret. He’d been a major intelligence target of ours for years, but so far no one had been able to come close to him. And regardless of this, at the moment I only could think how much more I wanted to go with him tonight than with Tahir.
I tried my best to remain unfazed and even to turn most of my attention to Tahir. This is what I had been trained to do. But every fiber of my being went to the outside of my thigh, which was touching Fazil’s warm, hard-muscled thigh under the table in the closely packed restaurant.
More than once I felt that Fazil was about to reach out to touch my arm, even while Tahir was holding my hand and stroking my fingers. But he didn’t do it. I had no idea what I would do if he did. I owed Tahir this night.
The ship’s bell was ringing at the bar inside the restaurant and the barman was announcing “last call.”
That’s when Tahir haltingly asked me the question. “So, will you go with me?”
I turned to him and smiled. “Yes.”
I heard Tahir take in his breath, almost as if he didn’t believe how easily I had agreed, and, unless I was mistaken, I felt increased pressure on my thigh from Fazil’s leg.
“Where will we go?” I asked.
“How long? When do you need—?”
“All night,” I answered, looking at Tahir levelly, hoping at least that he would take some control, lose some vestige of his off-putting timidity now that his goal was being achieved. “The embassy doesn’t expect me back in the office tomorrow.” This was true; the embassy expected me on a flight home tomorrow, not back in the embassy. And then I repeated my question. “Where can we go?”
“My Keçiören Escort uncle has a flat here in this building,” Tahir said. But he said it so tentatively that I suspected there was more to it than that. “He owns the whole building.”
“But?” I said, because the way Tahir said it, there obviously was a “but” involved.
“We can use Uncle Fazil’s flat, but only if—”
“Only if I can be there. If I can watch,” Fazil finished for him.
I started to shake, and Tahir, feeling it in my hand and wrist, was quick to say, “But I’m sure there is a room at the Dome, if—”
“No, that’s quite all right with me . . . if you don’t mind, Tahir,” I answered in a low voice. Tahir had mistaken my shudder for squeamishness when it was more a response to an answered prayer. Still, it didn’t warm me to Tahir. He never seemed more of a wimp than now.
We rose from the table, and Tahir led me through the interior of the restaurant to a flight of wooden stairs rising to the floors above. Fazil was behind me, guiding me with a broad, cupped hand on my butt. My dick was hardening, and I was grateful for that. Tahir would think it was for him.
We went up four flights of stairs and came out on what was once the roof of the old stone structure. I gasped as we entered Fazil’s pied-à-terre at the top of the building. I had been in the Kyrenia harbor many times in the last two years, and yet I never had noticed this flat. It was nearly all window glass, with a narrow terrace running around all four sides. Only in the southeast corner of what was a cube, about thirty feet on each side, was there a short span of rock wall, enclosing a bathroom and a section of a kitchen wall, where all the utilities must have been run. The staircase came up in the southern section of the room, separating the kitchen and a small dining area from the larger room, but not visually cutting off the view.
And the view was magnificent. To the north were the fairy lights of the yacht basin and the hulking Kyrenia castle bastions—and out beyond that the silent sea. To the east and west was the undulating Mediterranean coast reaching out into the distance, and to the south loomed the purple majesty of the Kyrenia mountain range, dotted with the twinkling lights of isolated villas.
The great room itself was nearly empty, except for a large platform bed, covered with red silk, in the middle of the room and a few tub chairs circled round it.
When we reached the top of the stairs and while I was taking in the view, Fazil went into the kitchen and poured himself a large snifter of brandy and selected a cigar from a wooden humidor. He was moving slowly, deliberately, but I felt his eyes burning into me. And he had not lost his knowing smile.
Tahir walked up behind me and encircled my chest with his arms. I turned my face to him, and we kissed. He started unbuttoning my shirt, and I flinched.
“Can you turn off the lights? We are rather exposed,” I said. And, indeed, we were. Our glass cube, nearly in the center of the buildings ringing the harbor and hovering over the yacht basin and taller than the rest, was well in sight of many of the windows of the surrounding buildings, and even from the breakwater that served as an inviting promenade to help settle a heavy meal.
“If you would prefer,” Fazil said from the kitchen. And he gave a low laugh.
“Yes, please, I would,” I answered.
The lights went out, and Tahir resumed unbuttoning my shirt and pulling its hem out of my trousers. We were kissing lightly again. Everything he was doing was slow and tentative, as if I might put a stop to it at any moment.
This wasn’t the way I liked to fuck. I liked a man to take me quick and hard, to dominate me and take my breath away—to let me know we were fucking and that I would never come away from it the same man I went into it.
I was standing at the foot of the platform bed. Shirtless now, I felt Tahir’s hands cover my chest and play with my nipples, as he stood close behind me and kissed the hollow of my neck. He was shirtless too, and I felt a chill of pleasure at the tickling of his chest hair against my shoulder blades.
I gave a low moan, because I knew that was what he would like.
Fazil had come over to one of the tub chairs beside the bed. He had stripped naked but was still holding the brandy snifter in one hand and the lit cigar in the other.
The room was dimly lit by the dancing lights of the still busy town below us, and I shuddered at the sight of Fazil. He was magnificent to me. Solid and muscled, thick stomached, but not fat. A Zeus against Tahir’s Apollo. His dick wasn’t particularly long, but it was one of the thickest I’d ever seen, and his balls were heavy and hung low. Many men would be scared of him and would back off. I was scared of him, and if Tahir hadn’t been embracing me, I would have run to him.
I kept thinking that this man was dangerous. An international criminal. Someone to fear. And I did fear him. I feared what he could Etimesgut Escort do with that cock of his. And at the same time, I ached for him to use it on me.
Tahir had unzipped me and pulled my cock out, finding it hard. No doubt pleased that his lovemaking was arousing me. But if he only knew.
Time to go to work—to pay my dues—to complete my assignment.
I pushed my trousers to the floor and stepped out of my loafers, and then I turned and pivoted Tahir around and laid him gently on his back on the bed. Kneeling between his knees, I unzipped his trousers and pulled them off his legs and crouched over him. Holding both of his wrists out at the side on the bed, I started to tongue down his heavy matting of chest hair, wetting his curly hair down and moving my lips down his belly and into his pubic hair and sucking on his hairy balls before taking possession of his long, thin cock with my mouth. Tahir was trembling with pleasure, breathing in short gasps. Lost to me.
All of the time, when I was able, I was looking over at Fazil, who was sitting in the chair, his brandy snifter and cigar now on the table beside him, and languidly working his cock with one hand and running his other hand through the heavy matting of his chest, living vicariously what I was doing to his nephew on the bed. And I was also looking out at the magnificent view from the glass cube, the setting sensual and arousing in its own right. It made me feel like I was floating on the clouds between purple mountains and dark blue sea.
Tahir was groaning and sighing under my attentions, and he tightened up and ejaculated in my throat the first time I took him entirely in and held there, my teeth lightly pressuring the root of his cock.
He mumbled an apology, but I pretended not to hear it or to notice that he had come so quickly and kept on giving him deep-throated cock play.
But when I looked up at his uncle, there was a derisive twinkle in his eye as if he was signaling that we were in the presence of a rank amateur. The languid look he gave me conveyed that he thought I needed something else. Something more vigorous and passionate—something more dangerous. And he was right.
Tahir was young and in good shape, and thus he was filling out quickly enough again. He pulled out from underneath me and helped me up to my feet. For a moment I thought he had no idea what to do next, but then he was behind me and I spread my legs and leaned over the bed, with my fists in the red silk coverlet. But my eyes were locked on Fazil’s as Tahir knelt behind me. He pulled my dick through my legs and began kissing and tonguing and sucking my balls, dick, and entrance in alternating patterns of slow, sensual lovemaking.
It was a pleasant sensation, and I managed to stay hard as I watched Fazil play his own body off to the side of the bed, his eyes boring into me.
I felt Tahir’s cock at my hole, and then he was inside me and taking me slowly in long strokes. I panted and groaned for him, and he murmured his pleasure and appreciation as he covered me close from behind and kissed my neck. Again, the feel of his chest hair on my bare skin helped me. But Fazil’s hair fascinated me. He was a real bear of a man, thickly matted nearly everywhere, black, but with gray highlights, which shone in the reflected light of the outside world. My eyes fixated on his hands, his fingers, his hairy knuckles, and I moaned and moved my hips in imagining him finger fucking me with those hands, the fingers thicker than some men’s cocks.
Misjudging the source of my arousal, Tahir shuddered and gave a little cry and fucked me faster—but only briefly, as he came again and collapsed on me, sending us both down onto the surface of the bed.
I heard Fazil give a low laugh. I don’t know if Tahir heard it too. Probably not. Tahir was lost in ecstasy at what he no doubt thought was a world-shaking fuck.
We lay there for a few minutes, and then Tahir murmured that he would shower and then I could do the same. And after that, he said, we could retire for the night—if that was what I wanted, if I was willing to stay the night. I brought his face to mine and kissed him and thanked him for the fuck and whispered my regret that the night was so short but that it was, by no means, over. Then trembling with pleasure, he rose from me and trotted off to the bathroom, to all appearances glowing with accomplishment.
I sensed more than heard Fazil rise from his chair even as the bathroom door was shutting, and I barely had time to turn onto my back and spread my legs and lift my pelvis before Fazil was upon me, roughly grabbing my waist in both of his powerful hands, leaning his face down, whipping my cheeks with the long strands of gray-streaked hair he let down before he came to me, forcing his searching, possessing tongue between my lips, and thrusting his thick, throbbing cock hard inside me.
I gasped and gurgled and grunted loudly at the onslaught, the sound muffled, I hoped, by the stream of water in the shower, and arched my back and dug my hands into Fazil’s chest matting and tried to push him away. I struggled against him, trying to pull out from underneath him, as I knew he wanted me to do. And he bit me on the lip and reared up and backhanded me across the face. He also pulled his pelvis back and thrust hard forward again, driving his cock deeper inside me—as he knew I wanted him to do.
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